


Six Reasons Sherazade Claes Will Not Be The Beauxbatons Champion

by Eglantine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Beauxbatons, Crossover, Gen, just... really silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a series of <a href="http://ratheralark.tumblr.com/post/149418809889/in-a-completly-unrelated-note-to-everything-i-was">very</a> <a href="http://ratheralark.tumblr.com/post/149385658279/thecoffeetragedy-replied-to-your-postin-a">silly</a> tumblr posts.</p><p>With the help of a pack of nineteenth-century ghosts, Beauxbatons seventh-year Sherazade Claes inadvertently guarantees she will not be traveling to the Triwizard Tournament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Reasons Sherazade Claes Will Not Be The Beauxbatons Champion

1\. 

Sherazade Claes was so lost in thought, she didn’t notice that one of the school ghosts had drifted over and was hovering opposite her.

“Oh,” she said with a start, and then, “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” the ghost said quickly. He was called Feuilly, and he was one of a group of ghosts, all from the 19th century, whose origins no student had conclusively discovered, partly because it was considered impolite to ask, and the two ghosts who insisted that it wasn’t impolite gave a different, more outlandish answer every time. “I hope I’m not interrupting! You had a concerned sort of look, was all.”

“I was thinking about French,” Sherazade said. “And why we all have to speak it here.”

“Well, Beauxbatons is in France,” Feuilly replied. 

“Yes, of course,” she said. “But not all the students are French. I’m Belgian. At home I speak Dutch. There are more Dutch-speaking wizards than French-speaking in Belgium— and there’s the wizards who are from the Netherlands! They speak Dutch, too. So why have we decided we all must speak French?” 

“That’s a very good point,” Feuilly said. “A nation’s linguistic sovereignty oughtn’t to be trampled. Even in a school! Especially in a school!” 

“You’re right!” Sherazade straightened in her chair. “You’re right! I should— do something!” 

Feuilly smiled brightly. “Why, yes, you should!” 

 

2\. 

“Detention?” the ghost asked as he drifted through a wall. He was another one of the old ones, one of Feuilly’s friends, but Sherazade didn’t know his name.

“No,” she replied. “I scrub toilets for fun.” 

The ghost laughed. “Fair, fair. I scrubbed a chamber pot or two in my day as well.” 

“So you all went to Beauxbatons?” Sherazade asked, sitting back and setting her brush aside. 

“Well, of course,” the ghost said. “You didn’t think we’d come haunt a place we’d never been, did you?” 

“Oh.” She felt a bit stupid now. “Right.” Then, to cover the moment, she said, “I’m Sherazade Claes. Seventh year.” 

“Magnès Courfeyrac,” the ghost replied. “So what did you do?”

“Refused to speak anything but Dutch in class,” Sherazade replied. 

Courfeyrac burst out laughing, and offered a round of applause. It was a strange thing, a ghostly clap. It didn’t quite make any noise. She liked this once, she decided. 

“You ought to start a society,” Courfeyrac said. “That was our favorite way of making a nuisance.” 

“It’s not just making a nuisance,” Sherazade protested. 

“No,” Courfeyrac said, growing suddenly sober. “No, of course it’s not."

“Everyone always calls us a French school, but we’re not only a French school,” Sherazade went on. Sometimes when she got started, she found it difficult to stop. Which probably had something to do with why she was in detention now. “Half our spells are in French, our books are all in French— it’s made it so French is the language of magic across four countries, and that’s ridiculous. Wizarding children who expect to go to Beauxbatons learn it, but what about muggle born children? What about muggles?” 

“There are some who would say that you shouldn’t trouble yourself about either muggles or muggle-borns,” Courfeyrac noted. But Sherazade could tell from his tone that he didn’t count himself in that group. So she didn’t try to stop herself from making a face.

“Start a society,” Courfeyrac said. “That’s what I would do.” 

 

3\. 

At the first meeting of the Francophone Resistance League, one of the first subjects raised was that the name was, perhaps, inappropriate.

“We’re hardly being oppressed,” a fourth-year said. 

“We’re not saying that,” Myriam Damseaux, Sherazade’s best friend and fellow seventh-year (who happened to have grown up French-speaking, but at least was also Belgian, and was generally happy to take Sherazade’s side in anything she thought might lead to a fight), said. 

“And it sounds a bit threatening,” a sixth-year added. 

“It would be nice to just start a dialogue,” Guy Peeters, also a seventh-year, said. “And anyway, we don’t want to risk our chance to be taken along to Hogwarts.”

“To what?” Sherazade said. 

“The Triwizard tournament!” Guy cried. “Don’t you ever pay attention? Only the top students will get a chance to compete. I don’t want to get in too much trouble before they’re chosen.” 

“Then why come at all?” Sherazade asked, irritated. 

“I think it’s an important issue,” Guy protested. “I just think we should call it by a different name. Something less… dramatic, you know?” 

“No!” came a booming voice from the back. Everyone jumped. No one had noticed before then that two ghosts had materialized at the back of the room. They were a delightful contrast: one big and one small; one very muscular and one rather pudgy; one with a great dark beard, the other with a demure, fair pageboy bob. Not that bob would be the proper word to use, as they were both members of Feuilly and Courfeyrac’s set. 

“Less dramatic, are you mad!” It was the bigger one who was speaking, though the smaller was nodding along fervently, a ghostly blush blazing in his cheeks. “Why, you must have as much drama as possible if you wish to get their attention! You’ve got the right idea, Claes, don’t let them discourage you.” 

“Getting friendly with the castle ghosts, are you?” Guy said. 

“They’ve got better ideas than you have,” Sherazade retorted. 

When the meeting was adjourned (and the decision made, by a vote, to decide on a new name at the next meeting— which the ghosts did not protest, coming as it did as the result of the democratic process), Sherazade lingered. The ghosts did, too.

“Drama, is it?” Sherazade said. “I don’t know that I should be taking advice about being dramatic from a ghost. For all I know, that’s what got you killed.”

“Everyone dies,” the smaller of the two said dreamily. “It’s really just a question of how.” 

“Prouvaire’s right,” the bigger said cheerfully. “Anyway, there was a time your language was something to die for. Not anymore, thank goodness! Unlike that Triwizard Tournament.”

“People die in it?”

“That’s why it was discontinued. 1792, the last year. Ship off the young wizards, distract them from the muggles’ chaos. None of their business, eh? Wizards should be above such things.” He shook his head in disgust “If you’re going to get young wizards killed, let it be for something.” 

 

4\. 

“But it might be interesting to go,” Sherazade said, trying to sound nonchalant. 

Myriam arched a brow. 

“The odds are we wouldn’t even get chosen as champion!” Sherazade said. “And then we’d just get to hang about in Scotland. It would be fun.” 

“I don’t know how much choice we get in the matter,” Myriam said. “I’ve heard it’s already been decided. They’ll just take the top half of the seventh-year class.”

“—which means we’d be going.”

“Right.” 

“Right…” Sherazade settled back into her chair to consider this. In some ways, it solved the question entirely. She’d be going, and it was out of her hands. Right then. Well, right. 

That was when two ghosts appeared. Sherazade practically expected it now; she was beginning to feel like a member of their group. These two she knew, as did most students: Joly and Combeferre, who frequented the infirmary. If you wanted someone to distract the nurses while your friends smuggled you sweets, ask Joly, who always sounded like he had a stuffed-up head; if you wanted a lecture on theories of healing magic that would probably help you sleep, ask Combeferre. 

“I think it’s appalling, bringing it back,” Joly said. “And for what!”

“That I don’t know,” Combeferre said. “I confess it seems suspicious to me.”

“Precisely! Will you be going?” Joly turned suddenly to Myriam and Sherazade, who exchanged a look.

“That’s what we were just talking about,” Sherazade said. “We don’t know that we’ll have much choice in the matter. But I’ve never seen the UK, so that might be nice?” 

“Plus you like to win things,” Myriam said. 

Sherazade scowled. “I don’t! Well, I do, but… well, so does everyone!” 

“Only if it’s worth winning,” Combeferre said. “A tournament in the name of international collaboration that then pits schools against each other? No, I don’t think I’d bother with winning that.” 

“You’re the second one to say that, you know,” Sherazade said. “The other— I mean, your friend. The big one, with the beard. He said something like that— about getting yourself killed for a reason.”

“Oh, that would have been Bahorel,” Joly said. “Well, he’s not wrong.” 

“Did you…?” Myriam cleared her throat and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, I know that’s not…”

“I hope we did,” Joly said. “We tried to.” 

“We died for the belief that muggles and wizards should live openly together, should cooperate,” Combeferre said. “We concerned ourselves with muggle politics— believed that we had much to offer them, of course, but they had just as much to offer us. It’s all hardly remembered now.” He smiled ruefully. “But we joined a muggle uprising, hoping that in doing so, we might not only bring about the outcome the rebels hoped for— the toppling of their king— but force the veil of secrecy between our world and theirs to be lifted. But as you can guess, it did not go as planned.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sherazade said, because she didn’t know what else to say. 

“I can see why the Triwizard Tournament seems a bit silly, compared to that,” Myriam said after a small pause.

“It’s certainly not silly,” Combeferre said. “It’s terribly dangerous. So why have they brought it back? That’s what I ask myself. What they’re hoping to distract from.” 

 

5.

“But don’t you think it sounds a bit mad?” Myriam said as they made their way back from supper. “Some great conspiracy— bread and circuses and all that. I mean, they’re from a long time ago. We don’t have kings and tyrants anymore.”

“Belgium has a king,” Sherazade could not resist pointing out. “But yes, I know what you mean. I… I don’t know. It makes a sort of sense to me.” 

The early autumn evenings were still long, even up in the mountains, and Myriam and Sherazade wandered towards the stables. Thanks to the winged horses’ strict diet of whiskey, there was always a pleasantly boozy smell in the air down there. 

There were also two ghosts. Sitting in one of the troughs. Having been spotted, they both looked a little sheepish.

“Ghosts can’t really taste, you know,” one of them said. He was bald, but he still looked relatively young. “But sometimes, if it’s very strong and you pass right through it…”

“We’re making do with what we’ve got,” the other concluded. He looked a bit like he’d been taken sleeping, clothes and hair all rumpled. 

“You’re Claes,” the bald one said abruptly. “I’ve heard about you.” 

“I’m being gossiped about by ghosts,” Sherazade said, and Myriam laughed. 

“Have you got some advice to give?” Myriam asked. “Something cryptic to say?” 

“Not really,” the bald ghost said cheerfully. “Usually I’d offer a drink, but…”

“But a ghost sat in it and a horse drank out of it,” the other concluded. “Not that that would stop me, lacking anything better.” He paused. “Though there are some bottles in the tack room.”

“We’ll definitely get expelled for this,” Myriam said. 

“Well,” Sherazade said. “Only if we get caught.”

Both ghosts applauded. 

 

6.

They weren’t caught, though their heads did ache a bit as they made their way down to breakfast the next morning. Just as everyone was settling in to their meals, Madame Maxime appeared suddenly in the doorway. Everyone hurried to their feet, a curious murmur rising up from the tables as she made her way to the front of the room: why was she here? What was she going to say? 

Madame Maxime waited until the hall had fallen silent before she spoke.

“I am here to announce the students who will be accompanying me to Hogwarts to enter to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.” 

An excited roar went up. Once again, Madame Maxime waited until it had ebbed before going on. 

“The students have been selected from the top of the seventh year class, and they are as follows…”

She began to read out the names. Beauxbatons students knew better than to interrupt with commentary or congratulations while Madame Maxime was speaking, lest they never get to hear the end of the list— but whispering rose up from the seventh years scattered throughout the dining hall when her list skipped straight from Charpentier to Delacour. Sherazade and Myriam— Claes and Damseaux, perhaps not the very tip-top of the class, but damn near to it— exchanged a glance. 

They remained where they were when the list concluded, when breakfast concluded, and the other students began to file out towards their classes. Some of their friends glanced at them, but, uncertain of what to say, passed on without saying anything. And then, when the dining hall was almost empty, in the seat opposite them— and Sherazade had almost been expecting it, maybe she had been waiting for it— was one last ghost. 

He was beautiful, this ghost. He was called Enjolras. His curls fell in a cascade of ghostly silver, a hue that had certainly been gold when he was alive. He almost never spoke to students. He spoke now.

“I hope your conversations with my friends are not responsible for your exclusion,” he said. “If you wanted to go.” 

Sherazade shrugged. “It wouldn’t be their fault, if it was. Everything I did and said was my own doing, I won’t blame anyone else.”

There was, maybe, the very faintest hint of a smile at the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “That’s good.” 

Madame Maxime’s heavy stride approached: they turned to see her drawing near, and stood.

“Ladies,” she said, and they said politely, “Madame.” 

“I think you are disappointed,” she said. 

“Just… confused, madame,” Sherazade said. “Curious.”

“We’re higher in our class than Fleur Delacour,” Myriam couldn’t help but point out. 

“It is not only a question of marks,” Madame Maxime said. “We want to bring students we are certain will represent Beauxbatons as it should be seen. Who will reflect well on the school.” 

Sherazade had to fight the urge to glance over at Myriam, and sensed that she was struggling with the same impulse. 

“You mean we talk too much,” Sherazade blurted out.

“In Dutch,” Myriam mumbled, and Sherazade had to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep from laughing. Madame Maxime seemed to be pretending not to hear. 

“There is no question that, in terms of magical ability, either of you would make an admirable Beauxbatons champion,” Madame Maxime said. “And if you can demonstrate in the coming weeks that you can be relied upon to uphold the reputation of our school, I would be very happy to have you travel to Hogwarts with us.” 

Sherazade heard something like a whisper behind her, then a ripple of cold: Enjolras had drifted a little closer. She snuck a peek over her shoulder at him. His expression was very calm, and almost curious. 

“Thank you, madame, but…” Sherazade glanced at last at Myriam, who nodded. “No thank you. We’ll keep on as we are.”


End file.
